


An Education in Itself

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: Mary I of England: Truth, the daughter of time [9]
Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Historically Accurate, Inspired by #MeToo, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Self-Defense, Sexual Harassment, Two Shot, Victim Blaming, some things don’t change even after 500 years :/
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-08 09:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13455357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: Early 1534.“Her father had intended her time at Hatfield to be an education in obedience and submission. While Mary was determined never to learn those lessons, Hatfield was certainly proving to be an education in itself.”Inspired by the #MeToo movement.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains sexual harassment, period-typical sexism & victim blaming, and minor violence in self-defense. Please do not read if you find these disturbing.
> 
> My contribution of sorts to the #MeToo movement.

_**Early 1534** _

Her father had intended her time at Hatfield to be an education in obedience, humiliation, and submission. Obedience to his -- nay, his _concubine’s_ \-- demands, humiliation at the hands of Anne’s relations daily, and submission to Elizabeth as the true and new Princess of England.

While Mary was determined never to learn those lessons, Hatfield was certainly proving to be an education in itself.

The first lesson came early one morning, a few weeks after she first arrived, as she was washing up in the enormous communal bathing room that all the ladies-in-waiting. Mary was just stepping out of the tub when she heard the muffled sound of a man’s voice outside the door: “Damnation. It’s the Lady Mary, the King’s daughter. We’ll come back later, when there’s a more lowborn wench to spy on.”

Then there was a small scuffle of footsteps hurrying away. Mary remained stock-still, uncaring that she was dripping water all over the fine carpet. A cold feeling washed over her. Two men had tried to catch sight of her while she was unclothed. They had waited outside the door, staring lewdly through the door crack, as though she were a common trollop, and only the realization that she was of royal blood had stopped them. She was somewhat reassured by the fact that her parentage still counted for something, but she was still shaken by the incident, enough that she went to Lady Shelton about it.

Much to Mary’s dismay, Lady Shelton was unsympathetic and terse in her response, insinuating that Mary was overreacting and should simply forget the incident. Mary was infuriated.

“The King’s instructions were that I am to be treated like any other lady-in-waiting, no more, no less-- is that not so? Then surely I deserve to be shielded from lewdness and lechery of men, just like every other lady-in-waiting in this household. I am certain the King would be displeased to know that such men are employed in his daughter’s household.”

Lady Shelton fixed her with a cold stare. “I am certain the King has more important matters on his mind than your petty complaints, Lady Mary-- yes, _petty_ , don’t look at me like that, girl. It’s common enough for young women like yourself to have to deal with the overcuriousity of young men. It’s the way of the world, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll learn how to cope with it and let it roll off of you like water off a duck’s back-- just like any other lady-in-waiting of the Princess Elizabeth’s household.”

And with a nasty smile, the governess turned on her heel and left Mary behind, aghast and alarmed by this new insight into a world she didn’t want to be a part of. Was this how the ladies of all royal households fared? _If I were queen, I would do something about it… but I am not, I am a common maid._

She had scorned the other women of Hatfield, deeming them shallow ninnies who would happily kiss the boots of the Concubine for favor, but if this was what they had to deal with every day…

_And now I will have to deal with this, as well_.

Chapuys had warned her of this, or at least in part. Even before Anne became queen, she had been gloating about how she would have Mary married off to an insultingly lowborn man, perhaps one of her Howard relations or some other underling. Such a _mésalliance_ would cement Mary’s inferior status forever and ensure any children she had were too common to sit on the throne.

But what if Anne decided she wanted to ruin Mary’s honor without the benefit of a wedding? What if she arranged for Mary to be harassed as she had been this morning, or worse?

Such a move would not only lower her status, it would ruin her virtue forever. And once her virtue was gone, Mary would have nothing left. A woman’s virtue was everything; without it, she had no power, no influence, no relevance. Look at what had happened to her mother: a few rumors here and there, to substantiate “evidence” that her first marriage was consummated. Katherine of Aragon’s virtue had been impugned forever and her world had burned to ash.

In one of her mother’s last letters to her, she had warned Mary to guard her chastity fiercely, and no wonder.

Would her father believe her, if Mary were to be caught in such a compromising situation? Even if the Concubine currently held him in her thrall, surely his love for her extended that much! If nothing else, he would be angry that a king’s daughter had been so dishonored.

He would be angry, certainly… but with the man who violated her, or herself?

Mary wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

* * *

A few days later, Mary was going about her duties when she heard a distant commotion. Curious, she drew nearer to the sound of the argument. Peeking around the corner, she saw a young maidservant weeping, while a man and the head of the lower maids stood by.

To her horror, Mary realized that the weeping woman was a maid who had often helped her, Bridget. She had snuck food to her when Mary refused to eat at the common benches, had kept her up to date with the going ons at court and had covered for her, and had even snuck several letters out to Chapuys. Had Bridget been caught helping her?

From what Mary could discern, Bridget was being accused of propositioning a man. The maid was insisting that the man had come to _her_ and offered to make her his mistress, in exchange for riches. Bridget had refused him, turning down his advances solidly. His pride had been stung, Bridget claimed, so he had turned it around and accused _her_ of tempting _him_.

Mary was sure the other woman was telling the truth; Bridget was a modest, goodly Christian woman who would never have jeopardized her position for the sake of a temporary flirtation. But that would do no Bridget no good. Her accuser was the son of an earl; Bridget was a common maidservant. It was his word against hers.

It was a done deal.

Later, after Bridget had been dismissed, Mary privately sought her out as she was packing her trunk. The other girl seemed to think it was simply bad luck, but Mary was suspicious. Was this a plot to rid her of one of her confidantes?

Bridget brushed off her concerns. “If someone had found out about the letters, Your Grace, I wouldn’t have been dismissed so summarily, like that out there in the hallway with only Mistress Maud and Lord She-led-me-on to witness it. They would have made an example of me and ensured that all and sundry knew exactly why I was leaving, and I would have been packing my trunk for a trip to the Tower, not back to my home in Kent.”

“How can you be sure?” Mary pressed her. “It’s in _her_ nature to be spiteful, it’d be just like her to send a message to me in such an underhanded way.”

“Really, Your Grace, there’s no need to worry. It’s common enough for this sort of thing to happen, and it’s something all beautiful women must fear,” Bridget said with a touch of self-denigrating vanity, trying and failing to smile. “It was truly an honor to serve you in my short time here, and I only regret that I’ll be leaving you with one less ally in this ants’ nest.”

Bridget squeezed Mary’s hand tightly-- perhaps an overly informal gesture, but one that Mary appreciated-- and then curtseyed to her, before heaving her trunk up and marching out of the room to begin the walk of ignominious dismissal.

Mary’s fears were not allayed. The look on the lord’s face had not been one of anger or wounded pride, but cold disinterest. He didn’t seem like a man that had been refused or a jilted lover. Surely if he was angry enough to get an innocent woman dismissed from her position, there would have been more malice in his expression, more satisfaction at achieving his revenge.

Could it have been a calculated gesture?

Or was Mary just reading too much into things?

She didn’t know. She was so inexperienced in such worldly matters; until a few months ago, they had always occupied the periphery of her vision, and she now cursed the ignorance that left her floundering for answers.

Was she being arrogant in assuming Anne cared so much about getting to her?

But that was a foregone conclusion; she could never overestimate Anne’s capacity for spite. That whore could find a thousand different little ways to torment Mary, whether it be demanding that Elizabeth be baptized in the same gown Mary had worn at her own christening, or saying in open court that she wished all Spaniards at the bottom of the sea. Anne hated her, saw Mary as the representation of all that she sought to overturn and would stop at nothing to lower her or see her gone.

As Anne herself had been known to say: _She is my death and I am hers._

* * *

The next night, Mary was entering her chamber and had just closed the door when she heard movement behind her. Too late, she realized that someone was already inside her chamber.

She let out a choked scream. Her next scream would have been even louder had the man-- it was a _man_ , dear God, a _man_ had been waiting for her in her chamber-- not clapped his hand over her mouth. “Hush!” he ordered her in a strangled mutter.

Terror pounded through her being, her mind suddenly working overdrive, every detail magnified tenfold in intensity. The thin moonlight streaming in through the window, her harsh breathing, his excited pants, the imprisoning grasp of his arms around her, the reek of apples and smoke on him so thick she could almost _taste_ it: it was suddenly all too real, pressing itself upon her senses. It was real, it was not real, she could not think, this was precisely what she had feared the most and it was about to happen--

“You’re here at last,” the man whispered, his breath ghosting over her neck.

And then he took her chin in his hand and crushed his lips to hers, effectively cutting off any more screams she might have issued.


	2. Chapter 2

For one second, she remained frozen, terror immobilizing her. Then instinct won over and Mary swung her hand out wildly in the dark, digging her nails in when she found skin and scratching as hard as she could. Hopefully she had drawn blood.

Her attacker jerked back, grunting in pain and surprise. Mary threw her other fist forward in a punch and caught him somewhere in the gut. He doubled over, gasping. Evidently he had not quite been anticipating the force of her blows.

Mary didn’t stop; she kept punching and kicking him until she had pummeled him to the ground. _A weapon-- something solid-- anything, anything!_

She grabbed a candlestick and was prepared to continue raining blows upon the scoundrel when he threw up his arms, cowering before her. “Sweetheart! _Sweetheart!_ God’s death, what has possessed you?”

“What has possessed _you_?” Mary screeched, her voice high and cracked as she had never heard it before. “Did you think you could violate a princess of the blood and expect to remain unscathed?”

“A princess of the-- Oh, _Jesu._ ”

His face sank into his hands, and he muttered, “I am a rank and utter fool.”

“And a foul criminal of the very worst sort,” Mary snapped. “When the King hears of this--”

The door suddenly opened, and Mary spun around, rearing her candlestick, expecting another attacker.

But it was a young woman, whom Mary vaguely recognized though the name escaped her. She was wearing a hood and cloak, as though to conceal her identity.

The maid glanced between the two of them, her eyes widening. “Geoffrey, you told me you’d found a room that no one ever went into! Not the one held by the Lady Mary!”

“It was up here tucked away in the attic! I thought it was unoccupied.”

“You rank and utter fool,” the woman said roughly.

“I supposed she thrashed you, didn’t she?” she asked, taking in the bruises and cuts blooming on his face. “I’d do much the same if you weren’t already bleeding.”

Mary could feel a headache brewing, and she rubbed her temples furiously. Her terror was bleeding away, replaced by thorough confusion and anger. “And what is your part in this?” she demanded of the newest addition to the scene.

The other woman curtseyed hastily, ducking her head, though whether in deference or shame Mary knew not. “We meant no disrespect, I swear it, Your Grace!”

Mary was slightly mollified by the honorific, but her scowl did not soften.

“Geoffrey had told me he found a private chamber for the two of us to… to spend the evening together,” the maid explained lamely. “He said it was out of the way, and never used. But it clearly wasn’t, and you must have had a nasty shock when you found him inside!”

“And when you took me in your arms and tried to force yourself on me!” Mary snapped, humiliation and anger staining her cheeks red.

Geoffrey was so overcome he could not even look at either woman, his forehand still buried in hands. “I thought you were Nell,” he mumbled, gesturing at his furious paramour. “You two could pass for twins.”

Mary glanced at the maidservant, assessing her appearance properly for the first time. They were of similar height and they both had blue eyes, but the similarities ended there. Mary’s hair was the bright red-gold that all the Tudors boasted, while Nell’s hair was a duller shade, closer to brown. Their facial structures were completely different, and Mary could also tell that Nell was several years older than her.

Distant cousins, perhaps, but not sisters and definitely not twins. Though to a dullard like Geoffrey, what was the difference?

Mary rounded on both of them. “And do both of you swear that this was nothing more than a misunderstanding? Not some plot to discredit me?” Her nerves were still jangling.

The two nodded emphatically. “In fact, we’ve helped convey letters from you to Ambassador Chapuys.”

Mary crooked an eyebrow. Nell supplied, “There’s a network among the servants to sneak out letters to the ambassador. Geoff has met with Chapuys’ man many times-- brought in a letter two weeks ago from him, and sent a letter from you three weeks before that.”

Those matched the dates of the last two letters she had exchanged with Chapuys. Mary nodded, her suspicions finally subsiding. “I believe you. Though perhaps Geoffrey should absent himself from this underground network from now on. He would just as likely hand the letter over to the Concubine herself.”

The halfwit had the grace to look ashamed of himself at that comment.

Mary banished the two of them from her chamber and sank onto her bed, her skin burning even though she was alone. She supposed this night’s tableau might appear quite comical to a spectator, but she could find no mirth in it, not when she was the key tragic player in it.

The room she was housed in was so shabby, two licentious paramours has thought they could use it for a tryst! Although she could not really blame them, she supposed, glancing about at the bare plaster walls, the cramped furniture, and the dust that covered everything. Her father and Anne had ordered she be given the worst room in the house, and she knew now that the steward of Hatfield had not been remiss in following that command.

And she’d received her first kiss from a bumbling dolt, a kiss that had nearly been a precursor to her own rape. That milestone was gone, taken from her, a gift she’d thought would belong to her future husband. Now it would forever belong to this night, this night of ridiculous misunderstandings and near-misses.

She wondered if she ought to tell anyone, but she almost immediately decided against it. The truth had a way of being distorted and revised, and the events of this night could very easily be twisted against her. Mary had no desire to walk in the luckless Bridget’s shoes, and it was that fear that would stay her tongue. She dared not even tell Chapuys. She shuddered to imagine committing those words upon paper and sending that missive into the ether.

If _that_ letter was intercepted!

Mary felt an upwelling of outrage bubbling inside her. She, the Princess of Wales, had nearly been assaulted in her own chamber, and she could not tell anyone, for fear of becoming the accused instead of the accuser!

She had lost much more than her title and her place in the succession when she was bastardized.

She had lost her father’s protection, the assurance of safety that had enveloped her like a cloak until it was brutally ripped from her shoulders.

Hatfield truly was an education in itself and in the ways of the world.

Mary sighed and began preparing for bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for this oneshot comes from two sources. The first and biggest, the #MeToo movement that took the U.S. (and world) by storm in the past few months. When hearing all the stories of women who were intimidated and abused by those in a position of power above them, I wondered how Mary would have coped with going from Princess of Wales to lowly maidservant at Hatfield, in a position of complete inferiority to just about everyone there. That too, at the tender age of 17-18 years. 
> 
> The second comes from Chapuys’ words in a 1532 letter: “ _Indeed, I hear [Anne Boleyn] has lately boasted that she will… marry [Princess Mary] to some varlet [a lowborn man], which would be an irreparable evil._ ” 
> 
> This is my first time writing about such a sensitive topic, and I do hope I haven’t offended anyone with my portrayal. It was also my first time writing a fight scene, one-sided as it was. If I’ve gotten anything wrong, do let me know and I’ll try to rectify it.
> 
> I have to admit to taking a bit of dramatic license with history here, as it is unlikely Mary ever experienced sexual harassment at Hatfield. Despite her disgrace, she was still the King’s daughter and the cousin of the Emperor, and the people around her would have been very conscious of the fact that she may one day be restored to favor. There is also no historical record of any actual instances of it occurring, and Chapuys would have certainly have made sure to report it if Mary suffered it.
> 
> However, that doesn’t mean Mary was completely immune from this danger, as she was in a very low position and would have been at the mercy of those at Hatfield. Just because she never spoke of it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen; it is still immensely difficult for women today to speak out about sexual harassment, and it would have been even harder for women in Mary’s era. She may well have suffered in silence out of fear or shame, and if she did, it would have been yet another evil she could lay at the feet of the Protestant cause.
> 
> I also want to clarify I don’t think Anne would have arranged to have Mary harassed, as it would have done Anne’s already abysmal reputation no good if Mary was violated while in the care of her relations. Anne did historically rant about having Mary executed, but she was intelligent enough to know that trying to discredit Mary in such an underhanded manner would only backfire on her, Anne. However, Mary would have had no trouble believing such a thing of Anne.
> 
> If anyone has any ideas or requests for any moments from Mary's life, seeing her interact with other Tudor figures, AU Mary-centric ideas, or even an entirely Mary-unrelated idea, leave me a comment!
> 
> And finally-- if you read this whole author’s note, you rock!


End file.
